COVID-19 Killed My Honeymoon, and Other Feels from a Pandemic

Six months ago, I did the most adult thing I've ever done and married my love, on what I'd selfishly argue was the most beautiful day of 2019/ever. Three months ago, early cases of a new virus started being reported out of China. One month ago, my husband survived an active shooter situation at his work place. Ten days ago that little virus from China was declared a pandemic.

And a week ago, I was standing in our bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror, silently sobbing, and eating a large homemade cookie.

It was banana oatmeal chocolate chip, like my mom used to make. Because it's a comfort food of my youth (much like buttered saltines and Mrs. Grass's soup). And I had made a large batch earlier that day with a few bananas that had gone too ripe. (I knew I could freeze them if needed to and was in doomsday-meal-prep mode that day.)

A culmination of feels hit me all at once as I picked up the first still-warm cookie to try out. And as that wave broke, I dashed to the bathroom. The bathroom was a closed door that I could use to shield my husband from any further stress, so I wouldn't be a burden. A refuge for me to process my emotions before putting back on the brave face and stepping back out. It was a silent space for some introspection. I could take all the time I needed. No one questions a closed bathroom door.

It wasn't until I was standing in front of the mirror that I realized the cookie was even still with me. There, in my hand, warm chocolate chips began to smudge my fingers. I let out a quiet, childish chortle thinking about how great, now my fingers looked like they had poop on them. And that's when the tears started to flow. Because it was arguably funny and weird that my cookie and I were there, but arguably awful everywhere else in the world.

I let the tears flow, slowly eating my cookie, and stared into my own eyes to reflect on the root cause of this particular breakdown....

.... I finally let myself accept the fact that we wouldn't be having a honeymoon. The situation had passed a tipping point in Europe and the journey around Portugal and the Azores I had meticulously planned (kicking off April 1st) was simply not going to happen. We likely wouldn't physically be able to get there, due to new border restrictions being put into place daily. And even if we did, every restaurant, museum, or park we might want to visit would be closed. We'd put ourselves and others at risk as we hopped between a half dozen airports on our way to and from. And we'd likely be put on quarantine either upon entry or upon return, if we even could return.* We had to cancel our honeymoon; we had to stay home.

.... My husband was still going to have to physically go to work the next day (as he can't work remote like I'm luckily able to), and risk being exposed to this accelerating plague. I'd be home working all day alone, with my phone propped up nearby, forever worried about missing his call telling me that he was in danger (because I missed it once, and it broke me, and I never want to miss a call from him again). He was going to come home after work, carrying with him the news and germs of the day, and spiral into a news-reel black hole, obsessing over the increasing number of cases (and deaths), and wondering why more wasn't being done. And I wouldn't have any answers for him. Any words of comfort would continue to be fairly hollow, as the situation changed so drastically each day, and all projected outcomes didn't bode well. I couldn't console my husband and I couldn't keep him safe.

.... My mom was going to still go to the casino for St. Patrick's Day with my aunt.** And plenty of others were going to continue going about their lives like nothing was happening. And this virus would just continue to spread because the people of the world wouldn't give up their freedoms until the situation got so dire that they were forced to. And there was nothing I could do to stop that. I could practice social distancing or stay entirely quarantined, and I personally could do my part, but I couldn't control anything beyond that. I could talk til I was blue in the face about the steps that needed to be taken, and still be told that I was overreacting and this was all a hoax. My actions alone felt like they meant very little. 

.... We had friends losing their jobs, stepping into an unknown timeline of financial insecurity. People we knew with compromised immune systems (and conditions that make them more vulnerable) who were scared to go outside and worried sick about getting sick. Relatives who would hate it if you said it out loud but who, quite frankly, fall into the "elderly" category and are thus in a higher risk zone. We watched friends have to adapt their career and home situations, suddenly working remote and needing somehow to care for their children who no longer could go to school/daycare due to closures. Friends who are nurses and doctors who are on the brink of a real shitstorm and will have to face the biggest challenges yet to come. We saw other friends get stuck while attempting to travel, people rushing to get to their final destinations. Events were cancelled, with many more pending cancellation. Everything and everyone we knew would be impacted by this.

.... I was also just straight up pissed. Angry for all the selfish reasons, but also for the lack of preparedness on a global scale, for the senseless loss of life, for the amount of misinformation being circulated. And mad at myself, for not taking it more seriously sooner, for all the times I'd gone out and about and could've possibly unknowingly contracted and spread this virus to someone else. I was just so vexed that this pandemic was really happening to us.

.... The timeline was totally unknown. Would this really be over in a month? Or were we all about to sign up for a much longer tour of duty with coronavirus? Would everyone do their part and this would all move along faster, or would the lies coming out of the President's mouth have done irreparable damage? Even if we all quarantined, would it just spread again the second we all returned to normal and we'd have to wait a year for a proper vaccine? Would our honeymoon not be the only thing we'd have to cancel in what was to be our most travel-heavy year to date? When would it really end and how bad would it get? When could life go back to normal?

I talk a good talk about the steps to be followed: stay home, wash your hands, practice social distancing if you have to go out for vital supplies, flatten the curve, keep your mental health in good shape, be kind, thank essential workers, stay strong and united at a distance, etc. I talk that talk on any platform I can and hope it will somehow help, but at the end of the day, I was still the one cry-eating a cookie in a bathroom. No one is immune to the feels during this health crisis.

I'd wager I've not been the only one sobbing in a bathroom in recent weeks. And that I'm not the only one who feels like they're at the point where anxiety, anger, and helplessness walked into a bar (against public order that such facilities remain closed to stop the spread) and then they licked everything in sight, touched their faces, and ran about in the streets buying up toilet paper. And I'm certainly not the only one who had to cancel a honeymoon, or whose life plan has to look a little different based on recent events. I'm happy for a strange feeling of solidarity, but am also just so damn frustrated-sad-enraged that we're all in this mess together (...but apart, please stay home).***

It's okay to have cookie-cries in the bathroom -
just be sure to wash your hands for twenty seconds afterwards.

* Spoiler alert: they've since blocked all travel into Portugal, and the Azores have mandatory quarantines in place for all those entering. The bright side is, we were able to get full refunds for our hotels and AirBNBs - and some of the airlines we were to fly with, others we're still arguing with that we want refunds and not vouchers (since we have no idea when or if we'll be able to reschedule our trip and if we do we're uncertain as to which airlines we'd fly based on timing needs).
** Note that my mom and aunt are both now practicing better social distancing, and I know there's a certain level of guilt at their having continued to go on their annual casino holiday trip, but at the time of the above depicted scene, I was basically hyperventilating at the thought of them both getting infected over a fucking penny slot machine. 
*** I also feel grateful and lucky in so so many ways, but right now I just am not in the optimistic mood to talk about the sunshiny shit, friends. Perhaps in another post. 

Yo, Fro

My indecision and love for color comes to a head whenever I go for froyo.

Don't get me wrong, it's not like I don't have a system. Everyone does. It's just that I lose my mind regardless and wind up with ten pounds of frozen rainbow goodness regardless* of said game plan.

When you go into a froyo place, sure there are other options, but they don't matter. The only one that matters is the "pump fro, top with yo, and pay by weight" method. I'm not going to buy a shake or a smoothie. I'm not a monster. (Although, there is something to be said for the take-home pints. But. Slippery slope, that one.)

Upon entry, the smart method would be to read the board/sign listing the flavors and then hone in on which ones you wish to have, going only to those specific pumps. What most end up doing instead is leisurely strolling along the nozzles. Stopping, reading, moving back, then forward, then sporadically about. Getting in LITERALLY everyone's way as they peruse the selection.** Yes, we've all been guilty of this one. My desire for efficiency puts me in a third bucket. I grab my container (the biggest one, every time, because I don't want my toppings to cascade all over the floor - they're nestled in when in that big basin) and go straight for the first pump. I then proceed to walk straight down the line, adding as I go.

About ten percent of the time this backfires, and I end up pumping a tart / sorbet flavor that I could've gotten down the line in a sweeter froyo. More often then not, this is the culprit of my excess. "Oh, a chocolate, yes I want a chocolate!" Two pumped later, "Oh, DUTCH chocolate you say? Well, don't mind if I do!" The result is either rather duplicate or a fantastic Frankensteinian rainbow. If not all the flavors mesh, I just mix them together like a child and call it a day. All flavors as one flavor!

Then of course comes the goods. The toppings. The reason most people pay eight bucks for a tiny dish and wonder why it's so expensive. Because, dear friends, those cherries and brownie chunks, they're frickin' heavy. (Science, man.)

Bring it on, froyo pump hogging youths! Mama's got a pink spoon and she means business!

I'll admit a controversial opinion here: I could do without the toppings. I'm perfectly content with plain old frozen delight, without all the extras. THAT being said. I do dapple. I go for a precise amount to get a little hint of toppings without adding too much to deter from the main event / too much weight to the price. Typically, that is the following: four to five chocolate chips, two boba balls (WHAT are those things?!), a single mini reeses cup, and then a SHIT TON of sprinkles. Unless, you know, it's one of those days where they have Nutella out. Then it's all over.

Any season, froyo is an easy go-to when I don't have the willpower to have ice cream in my home and want a treat. I can even pretend to be fairly "healthy" by just getting the fat-free flavors. And then I can shoot that healthy figment of my imagination straight in the face with chocolate chips and a bucket of Nutella. And, as I elbow my way past the youths, colorful dish of victory in hand, I know there's no point in pretending that the deliciousness in hand is good for me from a nutrition standpoint. BUT, for my soul? Yeah, it sure as hell is good for that.




* Today, Google taught me that "irregardless" is largely considered to be NOT a word. So. There's another instance of a word/phrase I've used my whole life without regard (AKA irregardless) to proper usage.
** This is almost as bad as the swarm of teenagers who bog down the pumps as they "sample" every single frickin' flavor. You know, the ones who then scurry off, laughing about how they gamed the system, while everyone else openly judges and hates them. *shakes fist at the youths*

ForgetFull

You often hear people refer to certain actions as instinctive. "It's like riding a bicycle," they say. Once you know how to do it, no matter how long it's been, you'll remember how. The method curls up inside the creases of your brains and surfaces at the point it becomes necessary again.

Most of that is total shit. The last time I tried to ride a bicycle I pretty much just tipped right over and looked like an asshat. (Granted, I was never the picture of balance and pose, but that's not the point.) Because sometimes you just plain forget and need to relearn. To retrain your bod.

Sometimes, when I forget one of those intuitive things and, I hit quiet panic mode. There have been several times in my life where I've randomly forgotten how to spell the word "because." Why? Because if you LOOK too long at that word, your brain can talk you out of it... Surely that's now how it's spelled. You've mixed up the letters. Or added too many. It definitely has too many letters, take some out... And the next thing you know, it's taken five minutes to hand-write a sentence and you've replaced "because" with "due to" since there was no agreement to be made regarding letter sequencing.

But I digress.

The other day I came to a very stark realization that threw me completely for a loop. I was getting dressed in the morning, in my usual fashion, and glanced over at the mirror to make sure all the buttons of my blouse were done properly (we've all made that mistake) and I realized...
I wasn't sucking in my stomach.

Why have you betrayed me, ice cream, old friend?!?

Now, it's not that I've suddenly lost weight, or was wearing a baggy shirt or something, so it wasn't necessary any longer. It was just there. There was my tummy. Just chilling. Not protruding, but just a part of my body that you could see was there, that existed hidden just below that layer of fabric.

And I was horrified.

What was it doing there, being noticeable? (Ultimate betrayal!) Immediately, I tried to suck it in. To no avail. The "forgot how to ride a bike" hysteria bubbling up, I lifted up my shirt and gave my midriff a good stare down in the mirror. It was like my abs had forgotten what to do. I continued to try to pull it in, but despite my efforts and no matter how much I glared, my gut didn't budge.

How long had this been going on? And how hadn't I noticed?? I tried to think back on the history of this habit...

• Middle school: straight as a board, no butt nor boob to speak of, as my fellow classmates started sprouting by several inches and flaunting newly formed cleavage in spaghetti strapped tanks. Eventually I figured out that if I pushed my bum back and leaned my chest forward, there was a slight illusion of curves. Cue years of resulting back problems and funny walks.  
• High school: same shit as above, plus the beginning of my back-of-mind obsession with the 0.7 solution - aka the waist-hip ratio of my dearest Audrey (and many other iconic ladies). If you sucked in, it was like it was almost possible! Come on, hourglass!
• College: late nights in the library throwing back buckets of Dew, wing night, fishbowl night, dollar burger night, unlimited swipes at the caf, plus a total lack of "real" exercise, THEN having to squeeze into some skimpy outfit for a Greek dance each weekend? You can bet your bottom dollar I was holding my breath and every bit of bulge back that I could (special thanks to control top pantyhose, dim lighting and beer goggles!). 
• Post-college: new city, new friends, more nights on the town than one cares to admit. The cattle auction that is modern dating didn't allow for jiggly error. We all know that the reality of the "paint me like one of your French girls" pose is you holding in your stomach with every ounce of energy you have, lest the reality flub sideways. Let it be known: any "sexy" breathless voice heard in the bedroom is probably coming from a woman whose abs are shaking with tension, anxiously awaiting the turning out of a light.* 

So when did I forget how? Is it because I became one of those "settled down" gals in a relationship? ... Oh geez, someone please tell me I'm not that girl in sweatpants with one of those volleyball player headband things over my ponytail, wearing fucking Ugg boots and eating a pint of ice cream in the street while my perfectly fit BF runs circles around me. You know, the one who "gave up" because she "already got a good one" and "doesn't have to try anymore." ((vomits in corner))

OR is it just that at some point I stopped caring so much what other people thought? That I accepted myself and my body a bit more and finally stopped being so self-conscious?

OR maybe that I finally stopped buying clothes that were "super cute" and that I'd "fit into someday" or that "look good if it's not a fat day," and finally just bought clothes that fit who I am and compliment my bod as it is, right here right now?

OR did I somehow get complacent and lazy? Is this just a part of the zero-fucks-given mentality that comes as one approaches 30??

OR am I really just so drastically out of shape that the atrophy in my abs has finally gotten to the point where I tell them to engage and they just look up from the couch, pausing the Netflix, and say "go get me a sandwich, bitch"? 

It's hard to tell what (or when) the turning point was. But, if you see me making funny faces, or holding my breath, just pretend I don't look like a freak. I'm practicing. My tummy needs to train, to relearn in case of emergency. What if I run into Ryan Reynolds (just after his divorce) some day?? Pretending to look skinny isn't a sprint, it's a marathon. Cue "Eye of the Tiger" and, maybe hold off on the ice cream... for a few days.

* Well helloooooo self-conscious whispers of my youth! Long time no see! Thanks for making that middle decade of my life an anxiety ridden nightmare... It's cool, I get it. Yeah yeah, no, I forgive you, it was a long time ago... Yeah, I'm doing just fine, and you?... Oh, married, huh? Wow, that's great. Two kids? You don't say. Well, I'm glad life is going so well for you... Me? Oh, yep, just swell. Stellar. Not still fending off demons from my past at all, I mean, yep, job is great too!...  Yeah, we should really meet up, grab a drink some time, catch up properly...  For real. Let's do it and not just say we'll do it. Yep, any time.... ((head spins around like in the Exorcist, pushes off bridge)) 

Sugar Mama: A Junkie's Tale

Every time I watch a documentary, I have a total crisis of faith.

Not religiously speaking, but more like a panic over my faith in myself or the world I call home. Whether it's a total meltdown about plastic bags, a sudden urge to free (or destroy) all killer whales (before they destroy us), or a desire to become a doomsday prepper (more to come on that), I leave with some extreme call to action. The worst though, is the food docus. In particular, the ones that make me feel bad about the food I consume (I'm a selfish creature - sad cows don't bug me, but attack me personally and I hit DEFCON 2).

Recently watched a docu called "Fed Up" - solely because the cover shows two M&Ms spelling out "F U" and I'm a sucker for witty marketing (yes, I judge EVERY book by its cover). Around all the hoopla about childhood obesity, one statistic (lord knows I love me some statistics - and apparently parentheses, too) really hit home. It was in regards to my first love and lifetime addiction. The sweet stuff: sugar.

Per the WHO (the one without Keith Moon), in regards to the daily recommended sugar intake:

"Less than 10% of total energy intake from free sugars - equivalent to 50 g (around 12 tsp) for a person of healthy body weight consuming approx 2000 calories per day, but ideally less than 5%."

So. That's 25 g to 50 g of sugar per day.

This figure has been quietly haunting me over the past several days. It was coupled with a bunch of lovely info on the addictive properties of sugar - something about lab mice and cocaine vs sugar water that made me hesitate as I mindlessly chugged my soda. Sugar has always been my default life fuel. Mountain Dew, the sweet nectar of the gods, my number one choice when running low on the energy front. Gummies have been consumed by the pound, as breakfast, lunch, dinner and anything in between. How could they demonize my sweet happiness??

As these stats brain ninja'ed their way around my mind, I started getting super self-conscious about every piece of candy I came within five feet of. Last night, I started to have a freak out about my teeth rotting away and the probability of my being pre-diabetic (something my previous needle-phobia self always dreaded) until I had a restless night of worry: something had to change.

Cue today, when I resolved to go grocery shopping to get low/no calorie options more readily available. Between meetings, my mind wandered as I planned out sugarless options. And that's when it kicked in. The craving.

It was like my body knew what I was up to. It knew that I was going to take away it's delicious candies, and its rebuttal was to make me see sense and not deprive it of my favorite things. The chocolately, sugary goodness...

Running to the water tapper, I filled cup after cup of crystal, clear liquid - guzzling it back in an attempt to drown out the craving. Hours later, it was no good. If I didn't get sugar, I was going to literally flip my shit. (Note: for work, it's my job to stare at food all day, so you know, that doesn't really help - especially when it's Christmas cookie prep season.)

Soon, I was scrambling through my bag, seeking cash. The vending machines only take cash, which has always been a blessing and a curse. Grabbing a dollar, I sprinted to the hallway where the decision was made: M&Ms. That would do it. I could just have a couple now, and a few later maybe. Just a few. Just enough to satisfy the need, but not go nuts.

In went the dollar, and the little spiral started to unwind. And of course... it stopped. Just as the bag teetered on the edge of falling, laughing at me. The fates had decided: no. My lack of willpower was not going to fly; the universe stepped in to stop me.

Then the mad dash back to my cube, and the retrieval of another dollar. Frantically, I rushed to the vending machine before someone else could swoop in and screw me out of my treat. Staring at the bag, hanging there, living on a prayer, I knew I should just walk away. Accept that this was a lucky turn of chance and go on my way.

But in went the second dollar. And I left with not one, but two bags (which made me feel vindicated for the initial screwing over from the machine who tried to fuck with my happiness - no, not still bitter at all). And this afternoon, two bags of M&Ms found their way straight into my mouth. I hulked out on them, with full abandon.

Celebrating 75 years - of crushing my soul...
It's snack-attack-o'clock, and mama's hangry!

There were 31 g of sugar in EACH of those tiny bags - so in one fell swoop, I launched well beyond the top end of my daily recommended allotment. If I'd tagged on one of my dear Mountain Dews (at 46 g in one can), I'd have been at triple or double the daily. Now, that didn't happen, because I gave up drinking soda at work when starting my new job, but the overall tally is mind blowing.

So this week, it's low sugar. And by "low," I mean, at least staying within that range. Once you start actually looking at how many things have added sugars (or natural sugars even), it's almost like... I may starve. Okay, that won't really happen, but still, it may feel like it. There will be a point in the morning at work, walking into a meeting, when I'm exhausted and need a boost, and sugar won't be there to pick me up. Because it lifted up those coke rats, and it didn't end well for them. So. Time for some awareness and time for some change. Here goes nothing!

We All Scream for Ice Cream

It’s a known fact that if I eat chocolate, of any variety, I will end up with chocolate on some odd spot on my body. All over my face, on my elbow, on my foot: it’s bound to end up somewhere. This is my curse. And this contributes directly to my adventure of the night. My fate was already sealed.

In case you’ve forgotten, physical exertion (other than actual manual labor, which I relish) and I don’t necessarily get along. But, plagued with my walrus complex, I’ve been continuing to attempt to sneak in exercise. Tonight’s plan: walk to get froyo at the local home of my delicious obsession. It’s only a mile walk to get there, so seemed plenty reasonable. Plus, there would be froyo for dinner. Worth it.

Donned the workout garb (so the world would take my efforts seriously as I marched down the sidewalk) and popped in the ear buds. Hit the streets, my little drawstring backpack jingling as my keys collided with my wallet. A dozen strides into my jolly stroll to victory and I suddenly felt the humidity, noticed the ominous dark clouds, saw the wind jostle the trees around me… a storm was coming. I knew I should just turn back, but got hit with a freakish determination instead. There was no way I was going home empty-handed.

Halfway to my destination, I knew I wasn’t going to be the storm and instead opted to duck into a grocery store. It may not be as magical as picking between twenty flavors and adding on any topping imaginable, but I figured a half gallon of ice cream might do the trick. Might make me feel better about the lack of froyo, freeze my sorrows, etc. Not one to waste a trip to the grocery store, I also grabbed a grapefruit, two yogurts, a pack of gum and some waffles. Seriously, it didn’t make sense to me either, but I’m compulsive so it happened. And it all got rapidly stuffed into my tiny drawstring backpack at the checkout, in my frantic race against time.

Back outside, the sky was eerily dark, with rays of sun attempting to break the clouds on the horizon. The wind was gale force. And I was screwed.

I slung the bag over my shoulders and took off at a fast pace, hoping for the best. At the intersection, I stood impatiently, getting knocked about by the wind, sweating buckets in the humidity. And then, something worse… I had been so distracted in getting home that I didn’t realize. Despite the heat, my back was FREEZING. The ice cream was pressed squarely into my back, and by the sound of it, was melting rapidly. The signal changed.

The situation was now desperate. I broke into a jog, but the drawstring bag jumped around too much. I pulled the strings close to me so it wouldn’t bounce, but that just pulled the ice cream closer into my body heat. Attempting to arch my back so it wouldn’t melt the ice cream, I went into a half jog, half gallop. Realizing that I probably resembled a drunken Quasimodo staggering his way home, I decided to hell with it and just started running.

And that’s when the grapefruit exploded.

It had decided to give up on life, just like me. So I let out my now standard “why me?!” exasperated howl (somewhere between a sigh, a King Kong holler and a yodel)  and continued my sprint home as the grapefruit juice and ice cream soup pooled up on my back and dripped its way down my side. There was no way in hell I wasn’t going to make it home before it started raining, after all that.

Sweaty and beaten, my drawstring backpack leaking on my leg, in a total huff, I arrived back to my apartment. My neighbors were unpacking their kids from their after-school activities. The small ginger girl child who always wears a rainbow tutu glared at me, a bottle of water in her hand. I judged her drinking bottled water almost as much as she judged my disheveled appearance. Politeness was exchanged with the parents. And I ducked past my birds and into my home, putting an end to the madness.

I’d also like to point out that at the time of posting this, it still has not rained. And the ice cream soup, it was delicious. Sigh.

You can't see from this angle where the chocolate ended up,
but I assure you, the curse remains stubbornly intact.